


Bond

by IHeartStories



Series: The Heart of Everything (Series) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Canon Divergence, Friendship/Love, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Implied James Sholto/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV First Person, POV John Watson, a question of deserving, bi john, bonds of friendship, there's a kiss too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHeartStories/pseuds/IHeartStories
Summary: John's thoughts during the Hug scene (Lying Detective). This is basically "All We Are" Being told from John's point of view.





	Bond

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in summary, this basically a retelling of "All We Are" being told through John's point of view.  
> I've done my best to keep it the same but with a twist through John's eyes.  
> I do hope you like it.  
> This story is not beta read.  
> I wrote this while doing some finishing touches on "Who We Want To Be" and well here we are.  
> Enjoy and have a lovely day.

**~ Bond ~**

Crying for what felt like a lifetime had passed, the tears of the past few years finally catching up to me, as I stand in Baker St. Being held by the one, I’ve loved and grieved, for so long. I cry for the damage I’ve caused my best friend… I don’t even believe that I deserve to that title any longer. What kind of a best friend kicks, and punches a man when they’re lying on the ground? Sherlock may have been behaving erratic, more than usual due to being high on drugs, but that was no way to behave. I wrongfully blamed the detective for Mary’s death.

I don’t even truthfully understand why I acted that way. My mind, my body, almost everything about myself felt disconnected, I no longer felt the friend, the father, or the husband I should’ve been. I still don’t like any of those things. I’ve become the person I did not want to become.

Tried so hard not to be like the monster that my father was and yet I’ve succeeded into taking that title.

My childhood trauma, aside. is still no excuse for what I did to Sherlock Holmes, for chucking Rosie onto someone’s lap because I couldn’t cope, and for texting another woman while the woman I loved was taking care of our daughter, and yet that was where all of my troubles began, everything that I’ve became is what my father turned me into.

When Harry came out, I knew within my heart that I must do what I could to protect myself. Protesting that I am not gay at every turn and it mattered not if I turn an appreciative gaze towards another man. Denying that I do not like men, which I do, has soured my relationship with my sister and has kept me from admitting my feelings for the most ridiculous man that I’ve ever had privilege of knowing.

Sherlock Holmes is not the first man, whom I’ve felt attracted too and that honour belongs to one Major James Sholto, my former commander and friend, was one of the first men that I actually felt attracted too. We both felt that attraction, but we did not act. He was my commanding officer and I was his subordinate; it wouldn’t have been right. The timing to come forward and do something about it had passed. Now all there is lingers of regret. We’ve remained friends and that is all that we could ever be.

What I feel for Sherlock cannot be explained in simple terms and I’ve tried so hard to fall for a man who claims sentiment to be a human error. I didn’t truly understand what I felt until that excruciating day. My mind, my heart, my everything fell apart when I witnessed Sherlock commit suicide – well what I believed I saw at the time. He tricked me into believing he had died. It took forever to move on from the pain of losing Sherlock and I am still trying.

Mary, my wonderful, but complicated Mary, the mother of my child, had done her best to help me heal. I did love her. Despite the lies that Mary had covered, I loved her. That love began to fade, it was already struggling to survive when Sherlock Holmes decided to come back alive after two years. Tried my best to love her. But it wasn’t enough. I even struggled to come to terms with her shooting and almost killing Sherlock, I still am.

The image of a kind nurturing nurse, who likes to bake her own bread, with a warm mischievous smile becoming my lawfully wedded wife shattered into tiny little pieces. It was difficult to compare that image with what Mary turned out to be. My feelings were rapidly becoming confused. I wanted to hate her for the lies, for almost killing my best friend, and yet I couldn’t. I wanted to try to see if the marriage could work, if not for our sake, but for the sake of an unborn child.

I didn’t want us to become like what my parents became, divorced, broken mean-spirited pair of drunks, who cared very little about their two children’s welfare.

But what does my thoughts about a failing marriage, a childhood gone wrong, have do with the fact that I am being held by Sherlock Holmes, the man who doesn’t do sentiment, doesn’t comfort anyone and yet, surprisingly he got up to hold me like this.

Holding me like I’m his whole world, while I sob ugly tears into my hands and his shirt. I’ve never once been held like this. Not even by my parents, or by Harry. Yet, I am being held by a man who avoids sentiment like the plague.

I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be held like this. Sherlock should be hating me, or even toss me out of the building for what I did to him. I do not deserve the warmth of Sherlock’s friendship; I do not deserve any of this.

Never knew a friendship like this could ever exist, it may exist in Disney films, or in novels, something that only innocent children could dream of.

Who would have believed that a bloke like me, could ever discover something so unique and precious? I owe Mike Stamford a lot of favours for introducing me to Sherlock Holmes. All I wanted to do was to find affordable flat to call a home, I did not expect to find an adventure of a lifetime. No matter how many times I feel like hating Sherlock, I never could bring myself to do so. Hating Sherlock Holmes is like hating puppies. It’s just not possible for me.

I was angry with him for deceiving me, forcing me to grieve, to trick me into believing his death was true. That anger has now dissolved into tears.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured into Sherlock’s shirt.

“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock murmured a gentle reply.

That voice of Sherlock’s is one of the first things that I had noticed, and fallen for, when I first met the genius Detective. It was like listening to dark chocolate making love to the finest whiskey. That voice alone has featured many times in my dreams.

“Molly will be here soon,” I tell Sherlock.

I feel like I should be miles away from Sherlock, while my feet are stuck in concrete.

“Yes,” Sherlock gravely says to me.

Sherlock looks at me like he wants me stay. Finding it difficult to tell me the words to make me stay and I do want to stay. I never want to abandon this amazing man. I want to kiss him and hug him. I don’t deserve to feel this desire. It’s not my right. It never could be.

This amazing man deserves someone who could love him better than I could. Someone who won’t kick him while he is high on drugs. That’s why I tell him to take a chance with Irene Adler, she may be a criminal, but she does like Sherlock. If not Irene, anyone else could be what I cannot be for Sherlock. Heck, even Molly Hooper could be a better fit for Sherlock.

Anyone could be better than me.

“I’m sorry I wet your shirt,” I courteously tell Sherlock, as I point towards his tear stain shirt.

Sherlock glanced downwards before his incredible eyes swivelled back to me, “It’s just a shirt, John,” he gruffly tells me in earnest. “And stop apologising, you know how much that annoys me.”

I want to tell Sherlock everything about the way he makes me feel, but I can’t bring myself to do so, now is not the best time. I’m still grieving for Mary. Despite knowing that she’d secretly pleased that I’ve finally stopped being a stubborn ass and told Sherlock that I love him. I’ve only ever told Mary about being attracted to men, and especially having feelings for one incredible man in particular.

Narrowing my eyes, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes, licking my lips, “You didn’t kill Mary,” I tell him, aware that I’ve told him a few minutes earlier, but I need to tell Sherlock once more, perhaps more than once. “It was wrong of me to blame you. Just as it was wrong of me to hurt you -”

“You were grieving, and it was my fault –”

“Sherlock! Hitting you at the morgue, was not your fault. I don’t even know why I wanted to hurt you – but, I did hurt you. I know you don’t accept apologies, but I will apologise,” I vehemently tell Sherlock. “As many times as, I can.”

“I’ve already forgiven you,” Sherlock tells me.

“Despite everything that I did to you, which is not right, you’ve forgiven me?” I disbelievingly asked Sherlock.

I do not deserve this man’s forgiveness. I do not want it, and yet I do want it.

“Even so,” Sherlock replied. He stepped closer towards me, placing his talented hands, that plays the violin so beautifully, upon my upper arms. “I’ll always forgive you, John. It’s not right. It’s just what it is.”

“You should be hating me -”

“What will hating you prove,” Sherlock cut me off. “Hating you will get us nowhere. Besides I love you too much -”

Sherlock froze mid speech, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he had just told me, and I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing either. This is a man who claims love to be a chemical defect found on the losing side, a human error, and simply abhorrent.

“I’m sorry… What, did you just say?” I daringly asked this incredible man. “Did you just say that you love me?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock smiled at me.

“Why?” I asked him.

I want to know why this man loves me.

 “Why what?” Sherlock replied sarcastically. “Oh, as in why I love you?” He asked me before I question him some more.

“Yes, and why are you telling me this now?” I curiously asked Sherlock. Taking a step back from him.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Sherlock honestly replied. “I just do.”

“That’s not an answer, Sherlock,” I tell Sherlock as I dared to glance away.

“And yet it is,” Sherlock looks like he wants to kiss me, which is what I’ve desired for so long. “Perhaps one day I’ll find the answer to your questions.”

Before I could say anything to Sherlock. It was like he swooped down like a bird of prey.

His lips collided with my own.

**~ The End ~**


End file.
